


Flown

by roxymissrose



Series: This Small Dark Place [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), implied non-con/rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Master Patrick's heirs didn't believe in owning thralls, they just washed their hands of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flown

**Author's Note:**

> Jensen is twelve.

Gardenia scent was heavy in the air, and Jensen wondered if he'd ever smell them again. Every summer morning, for as long as he could remember, he'd awoken to the smell of them…how he would know if it was morning without their friendly scent flowing into his window? He rubbed quickly, carefully, at his eyes, not wanting to draw the attention of the Sellers. Thralls weren't to be seen or heard unless called on, that was their earliest, most important lesson. He gave out an exhausted little sigh that turned into a rather bigger yawn, muffled behind his hand. Jensen wasn't a yard boy or…or…a kitchenBoy, used to before-dawn hours—this was terribly early for him, used to rising around the nice, civilized hour of eight 'o'clock, time enough to fetch Master his breakfast tray and paper, after his own leisurely wash-up. Jensen squinted balefully at the horizon. Why, the sun was barely up yet.

The hired Seller rounded them up and herded the group of silent thralls towards the wagon, shouting, "Right, you meatbags—line up, one at a time and keep your holes shut." As if any of them but infants and toddlers and the newly indentured would be stupid enough to make noise.

Jensen was jostled by the older thralls trying to line up quickly and quietly. He staggered towards the end of the line with the babies, the too-early hour, and lack of sleep or breakfast, making him unsteady on his feet. 

He knuckled his eyes, peered around as he took small, shuffling steps forward. This place didn’t even seem like home anymore, he thought. The wide yard was empty except for the last of the farm and house thrall. It was weirdly quiet all over. The animals had been the first to go—the cows, the goats and pigs. His favorites, the chickens, weren't strutting around, cackling at each other…his eyes pricked with heat. He missed them. He missed the normal sounds of Master Patrick's estate, he missed the smells; bread baking in the ovens and soup on the boil, meat on the rack and sweets, the wonderful sweets masterCook was so good at preparing…Master loved sweets, and shared them often….

 

Above all, Jensen missed his mam's hands, her voice…he rubbed viciously at his eyes. _Enough._ He wasn't angling for another beating. He was no idiot, once was more than enough. 

The oppressive silence shattered when a messenger came roaring up into the center of the yard, his steambike throwing up plumes of dust. Everyone turned to see what the ruckus was about—to grow up and become a steambike rider or an airship captains was every little boy's dream. Jensen stared with longing at the blue and gold lines of the bike, envied the man in dust-streaked riding leathers.

The messenger leaned forward and throttled down the bike to shout, "Hey, Carter, the Stewart broad wants you to hurry it up. They want to rid the place of all sell-offs tonight." He tossed the Seller a packet of letters. "Bills of sale, Padaleck Estate. Shake a leg, boy."

Jensen watched the Seller, knew the 'rider's disrespectful attitude had annoyed him, knew exactly by the tilt of his eyebrow and the way his lips thinned how hard the Seller would push the thralls, harder than he'd planned to. Jensen could see that he was the kind of man that was more than happy to take his anger out on others. 

Sure enough the man turned to the thralls and sliced a quirt through the air. "Get your asses on the wagon—go, go, go!" he snapped, the last 'go' he punctuated with pushes and kicks, they were striped hard as they were loaded onto a horse van, the Seller's quirt landing indiscriminately on shoulders, backs, necks, young and old…they scrambled into the wagon fast as they could. To Jensen, it was the signal of the end of one life, and the beginning of a new, unknown one.

 

Master Patrick's possessions, the ones the family wanted, were swiftly loaded into a fleet of small trucks, their electric motors whirring as they pulled away down the road. A large steam van carried away Master's furniture; thick, heavy wood pieces passed down through generations of Stewarts—

And then there were the thralls.

Jensen was silent as he watched the vans and trucks speed away. Most of the thralls were quiet, worried. Most of them had grown up on Master Patrick's estate, and had never been sold before. But his heirs didn't believe in keeping thralls. Not that they also worried overmuch what would become of Master Patrick's thralls, young and old, where they would go—someplace good or someplace much worse. No, they didn't believe in owning thralls, they just washed their hands of them. 

Jensen didn't remember being sold before, but he had been. His mam told him. She'd been sold away herself a scant few days after Master Patrick died and he cried and cried until the masterHouseboy had beaten him. For his own good, he'd said. Keep crying like that, Jenny and they'll sell you onto the railroad instead. 

Jensen had stopped then. He knew no one sold to work on the railroads had a master…there was only one owner, The Land. There were no rules at all, but work, work, and work some more until your heart or back gave out, then The Renderers came. Jensen shivered. He'd heard the old thralls talking about them, the Renderers, the Knick-Knack Men…they came in their black wagons, like the song… _Knick-knack, toss 'em in the back, save the dogs the bones, in black wagons they go Home…_

They'd always been a boogey-man's tale to him before this upheaval in his life. Jensen was beginning to think that he'd taken his life with Master for granted.

* * *

The wagons lurched into motion, the big Percherons that Master had favored pulling them out on the estate road.

Tall redbuds lined the road, the wagons riding through their shadows, slicing the sun into uneven strips of light. Deep-rose tinted petals fell all over them like...like bloody snowflakes, Jensen thought, his nose wrinkled at his own morbid thoughts. Vanessa, Master Patrick's roomGirl, used to tell him, all the time, that his thoughts weren't suitable for a little boy. But Master Patrick had many times laughed at Jensen's observations, he'd laughed and shook his head, and sometimes given Jensen a sweet, or some good bit of leftover from his plate…he'd been a good master, Jensen thought.

He sat quietly at the tail-end of the wagon as alone as he could be, kicking his legs through the air as he watched the countryside go by. Little bits of gravel and sand kicked up by the wagon wheels stung his legs, a brief and quickly forgotten bit of pain. Birds whistled and he whistled back—a few of the thralls joined in the game, making the birds answer them. There was a brief swell of quiet conversation and then, silence again…the air of unpleasant anticipation grew.

Jensen had no idea where he was going, but he wasn't afraid, not really. A boy with his skills didn't have much to fear. He would probably go to another household with old people. He wasn't a yard boy or a land thrall; he wasn't like the accountant, who'd only be a thrall five more years…the accountant would serve his sentence and be gone, once again a Free Man. Jensen thought he'd fall into a good position again because while he might just be a server, he was a very good one; Master Patrick had told him many times that he was priceless. He wore his uniform well, and carried a tray with precision and grace. 

All this he knew because Master Patrick told him so. Jensen frowned. Of course, he was not a little chap anymore, and the master had been hinting that his job was about to change. He'd asked Jensen what he liked to do, what sort of things interested him. Thinking about that had been a puzzling exercise, because what he liked to do was sit with his mother or sleep, or watch the cooks…he thought maybe Master would apprentice him to the cooks and that would be fine. He'd love to learn about food and cooking, making dishes to make the Master smile. But he'd taken sick, their master, and then all he wanted was for Jensen to read to him, and so that's what Jensen did. 

Day in, day out, he brought master his food—what little he would eat—bland soups and thin, pale bread. Jensen would take his tray away and then read to him until he slept. Sometimes, he'd sing the old songs to Master Patrick, or help him dress after nurse bathed him. And he read. Master kept his eyes closed when Jensen read and sometimes, a tear would roll down his cheek. You sound just like my brother, he'd say, though Jensen found it hard to believe Master remembered his brother's voice. Jensen didn’t remember his brother's voice, and it wasn't that long ago that his brother had been sold away. He'd had a sister and a father, both also gone, but that was before Master Patrick and Jensen really didn’t remember them and so, didn’t miss them except in a vague, faltering sort of way. 

Now Master was dead, and Jensen was twelve, and about to go somewhere else, sold for the second time in his life. His wish was the same as all thralls'— that the next place would be good. That if it was, there'd be no selling on again. 

The wagon bumped and veered a bit on the rutted thrall's road, the Wagon Handler called out to the horses, his voice strong and deep enough to carry over the creak and slap of leather and crack and rumble of the wooden wagons, "Shoo, lads, straight ahead, big boys, good boys...."

* * *

The wagon came to a stop eventually, settling into a lot along with wagons from other places, other estates. Jensen and the others climbed down from the wagon, led to line up along the fence marking the edges of the lot. Jensen wished that he could look around, look up at the buildings looming over them. He'd never been to a city before—the noise, the unbelievable tons of bricks and glass and so many people and cars and—and-- _everything—_ made him vibrate, as if he could feel the city in his chest. He wanted to, so much, to lift his head and look to his fill, but he knew better. He felt a brief, uncharitable desire to kick the toddlers gawking about in horror and amazement…there were definite benefits to being young.

 

The Seller and his assistant quickly unrolled a long, thick leather leash, studded evenly along its length with steel rings. Every thrall but for the toddlers were quickly snapped into collars—the feel of the thick leather around Jensen's throat made him gasp—he didn't remember ever wearing a thing like it, had never seen one on Master Patrick's estate. As Jensen and the older thralls were clipped to the lead by their collars, the toddlers were pulled to the side and roped together by their waists. They sniffled and gave vent to quiet little sobs, but none were young enough to cry out loud. 

They were marched out of the lot, past the Wagon Handler, who Jensen had seen nearly every day of his life on Master's estate. This was the man he'd watched take care of the horses and do maintenance on the wagons and electric vans, who'd greeted him in a friendly enough way every morning and even sometimes tossed him a sweet. Jensen was lead past him, on the thrall line, and the Handler took no notice of him—he could have been a stranger for all the reaction Jensen got from him, even when he stumbled and fell to his knees right in front of the man, even when the Seller kicked him…Handler did not know him, or care. It was a different world, and Jensen began to truly be afraid.

* * *

They were led through dank, narrow streets. All the smells were so different from the estate, the sounds as well. The feel of slippery cobbles under his thin house boots unsettled him. He was used to gravel roads, brushed earth paths, slate pavers…Jensen found himself trying not to breathe through his nose. His stomach fluttered unpleasantly from the stink of rotten food and bog water, which horribly explained the slippery cobbles under his feet. Jensen tried to shudder as unobtrusively as possible. He wasn't a Free Man; he had no right to judge anyone, or anything. Still, the streets _were_ disgusting.

They finally came out of the maze of cobblestone streets onto a broad, paved boulevard that led to an open square, where markets and fairs and entertainments of all sorts happened. The bright sunlight of the square startled him after being led through narrow, dank streets, and he nearly collided with a rotapede that was swiftly rolling towards the square center. The line of thralls grumbled and shifted to accommodate Jensen's sudden move. He moved slowly as possible, watching the rotapede and its pretty driver roll swiftly away, her hair streaming in the small breeze her passage made... 

They were made to stop in front of a one-level stage, and were unhooked from each other, reattached to others in some manner that must have made sense to the sellers but Jensen didn’t understand—or care to. He was hooked to a new line with mostly strange thralls. He heard silent, muffled sobs. Families were about to be split now. But he was too smart to cry, too old, and too wary. 

Oblivious to the quiet sounds of sorrow around them, Master Patrick's accountant stood calm and quiet in line beside Jensen. "They can’t sell me out of this district. I'm not like you," he muttered. "I have a real family and a real home waiting." He thrust out his chin. "I made my mistakes, but after this…" he hesitated, glancing at Jensen, "I'll be free soon, I will." 

Jensen wondered how that must feel. To know that there was an end in sight. The accountant gave him a rare, rare smile, white teeth gleaming in contrast to his chocolate skin, Jensen sighed a little inside. He was a pleasant-looking man, Jensen thought, even if he was a bit of a stick and sometime cold. "When I go home again, I'll buy a thrall of my own to do my books and never think about this nightmare again."

Jensen vaguely felt there was something off about that, a wrongness that made him frown a little but it drifted out of his thoughts. A giant airship passed slowly overhead, blaring out a message inviting sea food lovers to visit the famous Natano's Frutti Di Mare Restaurant.

Jensen completely forgot his place—he stopped and stared, open-mouthed, as colorful shrimp and lobster and squid tumbled and played over the surface of the airship. He'd never seen anything like it before...the city was an _amazing_ place. 

The Seller switched Jensen, a single, sharp blow with a thin rod, careful to place the blow over his shoulder—the slight padding of his uniform jacket protected him from being cut. Not for his benefit, of course—a buyer might want a discount on a marked-up thrall. Jensen's eyes filled briefly with hot tears, but practice kept him silent. He was a trayboy—slightly more than a trayboy, actually, and the kind of beatings the land thralls got were rare for House thralls. Still, all thralls knew how to behave receiving discipline. It was an ingrained habit. 

Besides, Master Patrick wasn't a big believer in physical discipline. He was more a 'go to your room and out of my sight' kind of master when it came to House thralls, was lenient with his land thralls too, compared to other estates.

Jensen struggled to ignore the sting in his shoulder, tried to ignore the growing worry that his life had been softer than any thrall's had a right to be, and that was soon to change….

* * *

Jensen watched silently as thrall after thrall left the stage, hustled into wagons and gone out of Jensen's life in the blink of an eye. The accountant was sold and gone, a few others Jensen recognized until at last it was just Jensen, two other children younger than Jensen, a husbandman, a carpenter, and a technologist left at the stage. It was nearly sundown, the bright light having long since gone purplish with the coming evening but they'd never been called up, or displayed, or even looked at all the hours they stood there, tired, thirsty and hungry. Jensen worried, and the technologist standing close to him let out a strangled grunt when a Knick-Knack Man's van whirred into the square. It came steadily closer, puffing out small clouds of steam, its brakes gasping as it slowed. Jensen's heart beat like a rabbit's—were they going to be taken now?

But the black van gained speed and kept going straight through to the other side of the square and beyond, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. Another wagon came, pulled by massive horses that came plodding across the square. The wagon they pulled looked like a land thralls' wagon, only it was bright-yellow, with seats down one side, real seats to sit on, not just a railing studded with iron rings to clip shackles to, like the field wagons. 

Maybe…their new owners might be as kind as Master Patrick, Jensen hoped with all his might it would be so.

The wagon stopped and the Seller yelled, "Get on board, you lazy shits. You have it good this day, back to the country with you, off you go then, quick, quick, quick!"

 

They arrived at the new place at dusk. The vans had long been there and gone again, all the precious items sorted out and taken into the House. It was just the six of them, standing close to protect each other from the chilly evening air. They were left standing alone in a large open kind of…shed. It had four walls and a roof, the floor was tiled with slate and limestone. On one side, the wall was lined with benches, on the other a waist high counter, with a series of rings bolted to it. The other two walls held windows from ceiling to floor. If it had been the morning, the building would have been flooded with light. As it was, there were a couple of kerosene lamps sat on the counter, and a single large electric light hanging from the ceiling. 

Jensen wondered what function the shed served—thralls were never given technology of any kind. While Master Patrick had all the quarters outfitted with lamps and heaters, even Jensen knew very well that it was unusual. His mam had told him many stories about the world and Jensen didn't think himself as naïve. Again, he worried about how lucky—how _soft_ his old life had been…. 

 

Jensen made out rustling and barking in the gloom, eventually an electric cab pulled to a stop in the dim pool of light in front of the shed. A finely dressed, tall woman that Jensen thought must be the mistress of the house, accompanied by a woman who was most likely the masterMaid, stepped out of the cab. Behind them was a dour-faced man—judging by the cut of his clothes, he was the masterHouseboy of the new estate. The three looked the thralls over. The probable masterHouseboy spoke.

"You are property of the Padalecki estate. Kneel to your mistress."

They all dropped properly, even the toddlers. Jensen felt a brief burst of pride. It reflected well on Master Patrick, that even the youngest of them knew how to behave.

"Your old master was a good man and a great friend to the Padalecki estate. In a few minutes, the Thrall you report to will come to collect you, husbandman, carpenter. Technologist, you will follow me to the house. You children, the mistress will speak to you." 

The man pointed at Jensen and the two toddlers. He schooled himself not to react— _children._ It was quite annoying. The masterHouseboy must be nearly blind, not to see he was no child. He straightened as the new mistress took a step or two closer, her face pinched and unhappy looking. The masterMaid followed closely, her hand out as if to catch her mistress' elbow.

The mistress waved the two toddlers aside, and an elderly woman, a thrall, led them away into the darkness. That left Jensen and the technologist in the stone shed. The mistress and her masterMaid returned to the cab, it hummed slightly and drove off, towards the house, Jensen figured. He kept his eyes down, studying the toes of his now filthy house boots, fighting off an immediate and deeply ingrained sense of horror at how unsightly they were. 

"You, boy. How old are you?" 'Houseboy barked and the technologist startled, not so strongly that a master would have noticed, but thralls have trained eyes. Jensen looked up and saw that Houseboy meant for the technologist to answer. 

"I'm…the man hesitated, probably doing quick sums in his head. "I am twenty, masterHouseboy," he said and 'Houseboy nodded. He fixed Jensen with a glower. "How old are you, boy?" he barked again and Jensen answered quickly, knowing he looked younger, worried about that. 

'Houseboy thumbed through a sheaf of papers he produced from one of the many pockets of his overcoat. "Twelve…" He made a face, like he'd just bitten into a crab apple, and motioned the thralls to his side. "All right then. Follow me." 

He strode off, long legs eating up distance as Jensen struggled to keep up. 

* * *

The Padalecki estate house was…somewhat slightly less than impressive, Jensen thought. There had been elegant columns lining the deep porch of the Stewart estate—the Padalecki house had columns as well, only here they were…excessive. Sinuous vines of some sort wound around them, leading up to huge lotus blossoms blooming on their caps. Jensen examined the lotus with some confusion. The columns had no significance; the Padalecki Estate was nowhere near a body of water—their journey had taken them farther inland than Master's estate had been. Jensen knew this and he didn't even attend school anymore…was it possible the Padaleckis didn’t understand what the lotus meant? The odd, out-of-place reference to water was a puzzle. Or, he thought, perhaps this part of the land didn't care about symbolism and heraldry. Maybe they weren't educated in that. Master Patrick knew many things that young people didn't—he used to tell Jensen that all the time, and then explain the old ways to him. Jensen knew that it wasn't usual for a thrall in his position to know the things he did.

His cheek suddenly exploded in pain—a sharp, sudden heat and pressure sent his head flying back. Jensen cursed himself for his inattention; masterHouseboy cursed Jensen for having to slap him. "I've been calling you, boy. _Twice._ If this is what passed for discipline under Master Patrick, then you're soon to learn all about real life, trust me on that, boy." 

Jensen blinked hard; bit the inside of his mouth. His face was burning and the corner of his eye welled with tears from the pain. But he kept silent, kept a blank face, and 'Houseboy gave a barely noticeable nod of approval. 

The moment was interrupted when a man with an upstanding shock of thick, dark hair came striding out of a dark hallway to their left. He was wearing a gray jacket, covered with what looked like bits of metal and glass, his chest looped over with wire and straps. He fairly sparkled in the foyer light. " Hello, hello, Jim! So—which one is mine—good gods, not this shrimp, is it? He'll barely be able to hold up a screwdriver, let alone—oh, hah, wait! Let me guess…" He grinned when his gaze caught that of the technologist, who sort of grimaced in return, too caught-out to deliver a proper smile. 

Jensen winced inside. The technologist's response to the man, who was obviously a freeman, was so poor as to warrant a solid whipping. Master had been so good to them, maybe too good to them—Jensen was beginning to worry that none of the thralls had been quite prepared for life away from the Master.

 

"Yes, _Master Technologist,_ this is the new _thrall._ What is your name boy—Eric? Yes, that's it, I'm sure," 'Houseboy asked, without really asking. They all knew that whether it was or not, Eric was now the technologist's name. Born a thrall, die a thrall; nothing belonged to you, not even your name.

"So, yes, good, Eric, I'm Master Padalecki's Master Tech…" he stopped, took a deep breath, let a rather sweet smile grace his expressive face, and went on. "But you have my permission to call me by my name, and my name is Michael." 

Jensen and the other thrall managed not to react, but it was hard not to. Jensen felt sorry for the poor technologist—no doubt he was damned if he did use the master's name, and damned if he didn't. Jensen didn't envy him working with that kind of Master. He'd heard stories—that type tended to be mood-driven. When they felt generous they didn't notice you were a thrall, why, you were almost as good as a free man, yes—until something went wrong. And then you were a thrall times one hundred….

"You'll be staying with me and the staff in the small house," the Master Technologist said. "You'll like it, it's quite nice. Say good-bye to your little friend now, you probably won't see much of each other after this." He waited patiently, that same sweet smile on his face, while Eric and Jensen gave each other awkward waves and tried to smile at each other—neither had the slightest idea who the other was, Jensen only knew of him through peeking over the Techs' shoulders as they did repairs, and the technologist had never been aware of Jensen before being sold off together….

The hallway was dead silent when the Master Tech's nattering faded into the distance. masterHouseboy stared down at Jensen, who made himself busy peeking about at the estate house's elaborate foyer. It was quite grand…in a hideous way, he thought. There were huge pendulous chandeliers hanging from the two-story high ceiling. They looked a bit like pewter octopuses at some point had had congress with a crop of light pears. There was a full set of armor—two full sets—at either end of the room, but one set was cobbled together of different kinds of armor. Jensen felt that slight annoyance again. If _he_ knew, an unremarkable thrall of indifferent education, how could _they_ not know there were at least three different regions represented in that one set of armor?

He dropped his eyes to the floor and studied the huge compass laid out in tile and polished stone there. Again a water reference. Maybe the Padaleckis did have some tie to the sea. Or had hired a decorator with a hankering to be a pirate as well as designer…Jensen bit his lip, hard enough to shock the decidedly disrespectful tone his thoughts had taken into silence. A tiny voice whispered in a small, dark corner of his mind, _but those were just the kind of thoughts that made Master Patrick laugh…_

A little roomgirl dressed in plain black slid silently to masterHouseboy's side, and whispered something in his ear that seemed to upset him. He made a face that shouted disgust, but it slid into blankness so swiftly that most looking would not have noticed. Jensen noticed, he tried to notice everything—it was part of his job, after all. 

masterHouseboy reached out and snagged Jensen by one dusty lapel, shook him slightly. He said, "Follow this girl, tell the thralls she leaves you with that I said to bathe you and dress you as per the Master's wishes. Then you will return here, and let yourself into that room—" he pointed out a set of double doors. "You will wait there for instruction. You will kneel as you wait and not move a muscle. I _will_ know." He peered down at Jensen, his eyes going narrow. He drew his fingers thoughtfully through his graying beard, muttered, "Something tells me you did damn little of that. Well." He straightened, seemed to throw off whatever he was thinking. His face settled into blandness once again. He nudged Jensen in the direction the roomgirl was heading. "Now Go."

Jensen nodded and ran off in pursuit of the quickly moving girl, not even daring to ask why he needed help to bathe, since he was grown and perfectly capable of swishing a wash cloth and soap over his own self, had been doing so for many, many years, thank you.

The roomgirl left him alone in front of a wide archway. He stumbled across the threshold and into a large tiled room. Polished granite made up the walls and the floors of the huge space. A series of sun tunnels filled the space with light. There were pools—large pools—big enough for many people, and smaller pools, somewhat like the thrall pools the toddlers were allowed to play in. The water in them steamed, and faucets poured an endless supply of water into them. Around the pools, scattered here and there, were movable screens, meant to provide some privacy.

Behind the pools were rows of copper boilers, working to provide the hot water for the pools—no doubt for the entire estate. Sat next to them, on a wicker couch, was an elderly woman, seemingly absorbed in her knitting. She was much too old to be a roomgirl, she was wearing a service cap that declared her to be _the_ headGirl. She stood up slowly from the couch, laying down her knitting. With a sigh and a pinched look directed Jensen's way, she gestured him towards her. 

Jensen sketched a bit of a bow and said, "Please, ma'am, masterHouseboy says I need a bath and to—to get dressed?"

"Oh, he did, did he? You're the one? Well," she said, "come with me."

Suddenly, he was surrounded by what felt like dozens of roomgirls, they fluttered and spun around him. Under their hands, he was exposed bit by bit. The dust of the road, bits of straw and flakes of dry redbud petals, flew up into the air as they swiftly, efficiently, removed his uniform. 

His _uniform,_ the last bit of home he had left. He remembered the first time, his toddler clothes finally gone, and his grown, serving clothing being handed to him like precious gems. They were, they were; no one else but him had ever worn them, or would. Jensen remembered how the white shirt had been smooth and warm against his skin, how proud he'd been that the trousers went all the way to his ankles and had a smart, dark stripe down the outside of each leg. And how his coat's brass buttons—a double set—had gleamed brightly down his chest and at his wrists. On special nights, he'd served wearing cream colored gloves and a little white tie….

And now it was all to go into the trash fire. The fog of memory cleared instantly when he heard the headGirl say, toss it all, it's dirty and worn and this one won’t need a uniform ever again. She cackled like an insane bird, but no one joined her, no one smiled. 

 

The bath…was _horrible._ Embarrassing. People he didn't know touching him in places no one ever had before, not even his mam. He couldn't help it—he cried. He cried when they forced him to lay, nude and exposed, on a wide stone table while the few hairs that signified he was nearly a grown man were erased from his body—hot wax and thin linen working to tear it right out of his skin. 

They rubbed him all over with oil that was a bit too hot, worked him over with heated stones until his skin felt smooth and slick and not like his at all. They plucked hairs from his brows and the edges of his hairline; they dabbed at his face with paints and powder and slapped him when he wanted to cry again, on his legs, on his back, where it wouldn’t disturb the paint. It was worse than any punishment he'd received as a toddler.

He was just being forced into a…a gauzy kind of dress, or apron, or sleep-gown, or maybe a cross between all three, when a big man with dead eyes marched into the room. The roomgirls scattered like startled birds, leaving Jensen and the headGirl alone in front of him. 

He looked Jensen up and down, his gaze distantly approving. He didn't bother to explain who, or what his function was, just informed Jensen that his new life on the Padalecki estate was about to begin. That his Master had desired a new bedmate to replace the old one who'd been sold off, and that Jensen had been purchased with that in mind. 

Inside, Jensen cried again, tried desperately to hide his terror from this freezing-cold, iceberg of a man. He'd known, of course he'd known, the minute they tossed him into the pools he knew what his fate was. He'd heard from his mam what that life meant, had heard other thralls in the house discuss the bedmates with pity. 

The man's eyes went even colder, his tone more distant when he saw Jensen's upset. "Don’t bother getting emotional," he said, and flexed a thin metal rod that seemed to appear in his hand. "It won’t get you anything but pain," he said and the rod sang through the air.

* * *

The man kept a tight grip on his arm as they left the bathing hall. Jensen ran, barefoot at his side, afraid of tripping on the hems of the stupid dress in his effort to keep up, afraid that sweat might ruin the perfect mask they'd made of his face.

The double doors the masterHouseboy had pointed out earlier grew larger in his sight; they might as well be the gates of All Hells. Jensen tried desperately, but his breath refused to steady, he searched for calm but it shivered and splintered and wouldn't _take_ ….

He thought about dragging his feet, he thought about provoking the man into beating him too badly to be presented…he thought a million things, but followed silently, giving up on the search for comfort. The man gave him one of his icy glares and Jensen stopped obediently. His apron or nightshirt fluttered with the quivers Jensen couldn’t quite suppress… the icy man put his hands on the door knobs, the doors creaked slightly as they began to open….

"What in the name of All Hells is going on here?" 

They were stopped by the tall woman in fine clothing he'd seen before. The woman—the mistress of the house and her masterMaid came to a dead stop in front of Jensen, who quickly dropped his eyes.

Mistress Padalecki snapped her fingers at the masterHouseboy. "Who gave orders to have this little rabbit tarted up like some cheap whore?" she demanded. The overskirts of the filmy green gown she wore fluttered about with her agitation. The long bell sleeves cut like wings through the air; she reached out and gripped Jensen's chin tightly—painfully. She tilted his face this way and that. She frowned, her green eyes like chips of glass. 

"The master said—" The icy man began but the mistress cut him off.

"The _master?_ The master, eh?" He eyes went harder; her teeth flashed bright in a smile—a not very nice smile—grew. "Take this, this, _frippery_ off, scrub its face and dress it in some proper garments. Have it sent…yes, send it to the nursery. My son needs a playmate and this one will do fine." 

The grip on his chin transferred to shoulder and grew tighter; she applied long nails, as well. Her sharp gaze raked him. "What are you under this paint, nine, ten? That would be par for the course…that perverted bastard…well, you don't look stupid…" 

She grabbed his hands and flipped them over, dragging her finger nails across his palms. He knew better than to shiver at her touch, no matter how much it tickled and made his fingers want to twitch. "Soft hands, no calluses, clean nails—good." She turned her attention to the icy man. "It probably knows how a fine household works. Even better—there'll be less training to do. You made an excellent choice. Have masterHouseboy enter it in the books and then, send it along. After it's totally cleaned of this…whore getup."

* * *

Jensen was back in the bathing hall, standing at the edge of one of the pools, shaking a bit with the chill. This time, they'd scrubbed him down in one of the cold pools, with nowhere near the care and attention as previously. Jensen was grateful for the lack of attention, really. He was naked, chilled, but thankfully clean of powder and paint and the stupid gown.

The icy man, who it turned out was masterHouseboy's assistant, brought masterHouseboy up to speed.

After his assistant's report on the event, 'Houseboy looked Jensen up and down. "Well, you seem to have landed on your feet, aren't you a clever kitten? Now you’re about to be a pampered pet again, and get to keep your hindquarters in one piece."

His assistant laughed softly and the look he turned on Jensen was definitely less icy. There was even perhaps a slight warmth in his eyes now. "That was a close thing," he said. "She could have ordered you to the Knick-Knack wagon instead. Or you might have actually made it to your new…post. Now, you're free of it forever, you lucky little shit." He laughed, and 'Houseboy jogged him roughly.

"Shut up, Mark, don't you fill this idiot's head with dragon dreams." He tossed a basket filled with clothing to Jensen. "If you survive the young master's milk years, he might decide to take you himself—if he doesn't sell you on his own."

masterHouseboy turned and stalked off. When they were completely alone, Mark leaned close and whispered, "Well, as for being taken, you've got a good ten years before that's a worry. Best you be interesting an' entertaining as All Hell's slippery tricksters," he chuckled softly, seeming a completely different man than the one who'd coldly directed him through his paces in the bathing hall. Not necessarily nicer, just a little less distant. 

Jensen was confused, but hopeful—the tight bands around his chest loosened. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it didn't matter. He wasn't about to get fucked tonight, and that was all he needed to know at the moment. He was grateful enough for that.

* * *

The dark room he was ushered into next smelled nice. It smelled like boy but also like lavender, and like Sunday baking, and a bit like rain. It was, he thought, a very good smell. He stumbled slightly in the near-dark, almost falling over what was a nest of goosedown blankets and a thick, clean pillow, settled on the floor. It was close, but not too close, to a well-protected stove—just enough to be comfortably warm. Mark had whispered instructions on how to stoke the fire when he'd found out, to his slightly disgusted amazement, that Jensen had no idea how to do it himself.

When Mark had finally left, Jensen had searched through the basket he'd been given, and picked out what he was wearing now—short, flannel pants and a loose cotton shirt; made for sleeping in. They were soft from many, many washing, had probably gone through many seasons of boys, but they were clean and well-mended. He wrapped himself in one of blankets; lay quietly in the dark, contemplating what had happened in a single day, the way his whole world had turned upside down, the way he'd escaped something terrible by the thinnest margin. He'd _never_ be able to sleep. He blinked slowly. Just the thought of what he'd escaped…he blinked again…what if this child he was to attend was a little monster? Was it a girl, or a boy? An infant? Someone close to his own age…? The worry would…make him…totally…sleepless….

He was out like a light, floating in deep, velvety blackness.

* * *

In the morning, he woke to a pair of brightly curious hazel eyes blinking at him through a fringe of copper-colored hair. A little voice asked, squeaking with surprise, "Who are you?" 


End file.
